


Une Annee Sans Lumiere

by Velvetoscar



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Flash Fiction, Gen, a bit of stream of consciousness?, sorta?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 15:23:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Velvetoscar/pseuds/Velvetoscar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Your eyes are shooting stars."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Une Annee Sans Lumiere

**Author's Note:**

> For Ainsley because she's my spirit friend :)) 
> 
> Inspired by our conversation regarding banjos and fireflies and our love of the boyfriends :)

There are stars littering the sky, daring to blare against the dregs of neon pink and vibrant orange that are blasting from the tip of the sun, just barely peaking above the horizon.

The moon’s out though, is heralding the night, is being coaxed into wakefulness by the crickets and tree frogs that chorus in unison, all in time to Harry’s banjo that he plays, plays, plays.

“Your eyes are shooting stars,” he sings, calloused fingertips plucking at copper strings, and his feet are damp and cold, colliding with dewy green grass and wildflowers.

Louis’ response is a laugh, loud enough to silence the tiny crickets and the burpy frogs, bright enough to make the tail end of the sun quiver. Laughs and makes Harry smile brighter, glows the night alive and plays, plays, plays as Louis laughs, laughs, laughs.

The trees sway in time—or maybe that’s just in their imagination, in their world where reality doesn’t matter—and the air hangs in arching, humid waves, like curtains that part for their bodies as they spin around the field, spin through blue gloom and daybreak and each other.

“We don’t ever have to go back,” Louis pretends, trying to catch his breath but he keeps laughing, his giggles tumbling over his gasps and bright lips, pulled over glinting teeth.

He’s stumbling over his feet, running as Harry slings the banjo over his shoulder, as Harry chases him, catches him, twirls him because it’s endless and he can and they can’t see, can only _feel_.

The fireflies watch them, flicker momentarily before disappearing, sparking to life farther away—too far for Harry to catch, too far for Louis to swat. Some slam into their moist limbs, licked with the night and the air.

One crawls in Harry’s hair, probably loves it, will probably never leave and Louis doesn’t bother telling him so because he knows Harry will love it, will want to accommodate his guest, will never wash his hair again for fear of drowning it and Louis loves Harry and Harry loves Louis.

“We can’t go back, Lou,” Harry shouts into the space—the endless space that is field and life and shadowy blues and leaves. His skin is bright and his eyes are brighter and it’s exhilarating, he’s _exhilarating_. “Cuz we will always be _right now_ ,” Harry says and he doesn’t make sense but Louis understands him as they slow their spin, their hands sweaty and stuck together.

Louis just grins, grins as Harry beams like a bloom, like a daisy. Louis watches the daisy fall to the grass, carefully laying the banjo on the moist earth and the fresh dirt, lays it down like it’s made of glass and bone, the strings vibrating in Harry’s veins and Louis’ ribs. And then Harry flops back, stretches his limbs far apart—as far as they can go—embracing the air and the space and the feeling of _freedom_.

And then Harry’s tugging on Louis because Harry loves Louis and freedom only means something when it’s paired with the feel of Louis’ skin.

He tugs him to lie beside him and their elbows are pressed against each other’s, cool and a bit slick and familiar and they lie there for hours, forever, watching as the stars glow brighter and the moon rise higher and the sun disappear completely.

Fingers laced, palms pressed together, breaths quiet and eyes blinking to stay awake, they lay and they stare, watching the sky, until they no longer can decide which are the fireflies and which are the stars.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think this will work unless you read it while listening to 2 songs:
> 
> 1\. Une Annee Sans Lumiere by Arcade Fire  
> 2\. Farmhouse by Phish
> 
> This is sorta like...flash fiction? And sorta...stream of consciousness? It's just a flash in the pan I suppose. I don't know, I just wanted to write it! :)


End file.
